Jack had brought away the bunch of keys which he had taken from Quilt Arnold, but, none of them would open it. He hated travelling second-class with her—indeed, he never did—but he also disliked travelling in the same train when his daughter was in an inferior class, because of the look of the thing. “Well, you certainly did very well at tea,” she remarked. This year—I’ve got it badly. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way.
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